


Unforgivable

by Esbe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 09:54:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esbe/pseuds/Esbe
Summary: Many thanks torageprufrockfor sharing her wonderful fic and for allowing inspired pieces.





	Unforgivable

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Least of All Possible Mistakes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/330685) by [rageprufrock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock). 



> Please please read the wonderful fic that inspired this before hand. Simply because its an awesome fic.  
> If you are a Mystrade/ BBC Sherlock regular then you will get most of this anyways. But there are some specifics that will just make better sense. 
> 
> To all those who think Mycroft gets away with too much easily.
> 
> Sorry if the following notes are spoilers for that wonderful fic.
> 
> This fic is sometime after she gets shot and their reconciliation. What if Georgiana Lestrade had left the house they bought together? 
> 
> I have picked up some of the dialogues from the original fic.

Sherlock was back.

John took it out on Mycroft by disallowing him from her bedside.

“That was cruel.” She commented once she was able to speak. She was in parts grateful and sad.

“Yes and possibly foolish too. I bet if it weren’t for Sherlock I’d already be in Siberia now.”

She snorted, “Why Siberia?”

“I already survived Afghanistan you stupid woman. They have to try freezing me now.”

She laughed, “You definitely deserve a Holmes.”

He looked quietly at her. Perhaps about to say and so do you. But he did not. He simply smiled and then in a now very familiar move he bent over and kissed her forehead. She smiled and closed her eyes. Yeah it was cruel and damn she still wanted to curl up against that that that... Him. But right now it was temporary relief and she slept easily.

*****

Sherlock must have seen the kiss though.

“He… he… kissed you.”

“Yes. On the forehead,” she felt obliged to point out.

“He likes you.”

“Sher—“

“You are not like me. You are like him. You both you wil—”

“Sherlock Holmes if you fucking give me and John your blessings I’ll shoot you and ask Anderson to perform your autopsy!” She paused to take a breath and calm down. She did not need a nurse running in to check why the monitor was beeping madly.

But she was so tired of it all, “You idiots. Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you? Why the fuck can you brothers not get a basic idea of what your closest people want? Why do you not ask them instead of deducing? What’s your excuse for ignoring basic human interactions when it’s not about a case or a job?”

Sherlock blinked. He turned and looked towards the door. John was standing there. Sherlock stayed there for a moment quivering and then he rushed out barely giving John a chance to react. John could just look on helplessly.

*****

Apparently, the only thing more uncomfortable than being back at work after a Christmas party where the entire Metropolitan police force watched your marriage disintegrate was being back at work after the entire Metropolitan police force watched you tarred, feathered, and subsequently exonerated and deified by the public relations department. There were actually fucking flowers on her desk, which George would almost be amused by, except they were from Potter.

"Right," Davison said, pausing in the doorway of her office clutching a monstrous pile of folders and photographs and ominous-looking baggies of smeary red evidence. "Well. Good to be back, I guess?"

George finished stomping the lilies into a white and bruised-brown mess in her rubbish bin and smiled serenely up at him. "It is, Davison. It really is." And really it was good to be back, thought George.

The farce of the reinstatement was behind her. But being shot had taken its toll physically, age and two decades of erratic habits hadn’t helped much either, and so it had taken her longer than usual to step out back on the streets.

Even in those few weeks, there had been changes. Edith’s desk had already been reassigned. (With budget cuts to the Met – non-existent pay-hikes, reduced recruitment – space was at a premium after all.)

*****

She had spent most of her time convalescing in the flat that she rented. It wasn’t very convenient but she was damned if she was going to spend a minute more in “that house”.

Ben had helped her find a place on the same street he and Gillian lived and her mother was in and out constantly. Ben always came after informing her in advance, even though he almost always came at the same time each evening. Occasionally they would have dinner together. Several times she had been fed what was food suspiciously close to what either Anthea or Mycroft would have bought for her but she pointedly ignored the implication and refused to ask her mother.

She had mentioned _him_ just once after she was brought home, when she had asked Anthea never to mention him, not even an indicative word, never to interfere with her security (not one fucking microphone or camera) or job at Anthea’s own or anyone else’s behest, and to simply let George be. Anthea seemingly had stoically complied and had not even twitched an eye when she moved out. Of course, George could tell she was bursting to stop her. George could perhaps have barred her as well, but Anthea clearly showed her need of George and it was simpler to keep her in.

The day before she moved out, Sherlock visited her. He took one look at the packed boxes and swallowed before rattling off something about a series of break-ins in Croydon. It would have still hurt to hit him and so she desisted. When he broke into her new flat a week later she simply let him be as he prattled about some crime or the other. It became a ritual. She could tell that John was still at Baker Street and that Sherlock hadn’t yet been allowed in. Mrs. Hudson must have held firm too.

John was a constant. He came twice every day at first to check her health. Then it became each morning, he would check her, make breakfast, take her through some basic exercises, then he joined the clinic and she went back to her desk and it became a twice-a-week thing. Like clockwork. It was good to have him around even though he did make her exercise as often as possible. She knew he was coming both to check up on her and to escape Sherlock, and misery definitely loves company. Mrs. Hudson had called her twice and in one of the calls she off-handedly mentioned that Sherlock had been sleeping on the bins behind 221 for more than a week before John just opened the door one day to allow him to shower.

She teased John about it on his next visit.

"So _yours_ is making an effort," George said.

"He's sleeping rough out behind Mrs. Hudson's bins," John answered. "That's not making an effort: that's stalking."

She smiled, "In the Holmes lexicon, that's actually quite sweet, you know."

"You're a sick woman, George," John informed her, and stripped her out of her soft, too-big t-shirt for examination.

When John capitulated and let Sherlock move back into the Baker Street flat, she could think of no better, nor more desired, caretaker for Sherlock and yet she could not resist, "Congratulations," she commended John sarcastically. "You gave in even faster than I expected."

"Sod off," John quipped, unwrapping another brownie, courtesy Mrs. Hudson. "What about you, then?"

George looked out the window, at the unrelenting grey mass of London, letting the chocolate melt across her tongue. "I'm...trying to figure out the right thing to do."

The shrill noise of his mobile phone, lighting up where it was lying on the table broke the mood.

*****

It was exactly one month since she hit the streets again when it happened. She had successfully kept away all thoughts of _him_ and the exercises that John insisted on had actually helped her feel healthier than she had in the last decade. Exactly one month of the norm – no meds, eating junk on the go, erratic but deep sleep. She was in a jubilant mood and she was going to have dinner with her mother and Ben before going to a pub with John. And Mrs. Holmes shattered it all.

She arrived on the one evening off George had had in one month, bringing back memories of those damned Holmes and their zero respect for privacy.

“Good evening. Georgiana”, she said deliberately and it took all of George’s self control and manners not to bang the door shut, even as those thoughts were surely read by her uninvited visitor.

“Come in Mrs. Holmes.” George moved to let her in and closed the door.

“Please, I am sure we agreed on Eugenia,” she smiled. “I’m glad to see you recovered.”

“Thank you… Please take a seat.”

“Thank you, dear. Travel no longer suits these old bones,” she sighed as she sat upon the lone armchair. The only other space to sit was the couch.

“Let me get you some tea,” George hurried before there could be awkward silences or even more awkward conversation.

“Oh there’s no need. I arrived a little early and so Mycroft’s assistant gave me some before dropping me.”

George was silent. _You have no right,_ she wanted to say. _No right to shatter my peace, no right to force_ him _back into my life, no right to say his name here._ She simply said nothing.

“I know he has been a fool, Georgiana,” Eugenia began and George wanted to hurl herself out of the room when Ben entered from the kitchen with a tray in hand and Gillian hovering by the door.

“Thought I heard the doorbell,” he smiled. “Tea first, introductions later, please.”

He handed over mugs of the over brewed and sweet milky _chai_ he insisted on making almost every time and served minus saucers. George was sure that Gillian must have insisted on using the proper tea set and was a bit surprised that the mild mannered dentist had over-ruled her mother. Ben seated himself between her and Eugenia and smiled affably even as Gillian refused to enter the room. It all seemed a bit like a scene from a TV drama and George would have smiled in any other circumstances. That day however, she just continued her silence.

Ben took a sip and made a satisfied sound, “Ahhh, hope you like it. I got used to it during my time in Africa. Had Indian neighbours,” he said by means of an explanation and then went on. “I’m Ben Undershaw. Gillian and I married last year.”

“How do you do, Dr. Undershaw? I’m Eugenia Holmes, mother of M…”

“Sherlock’s mother! How delightful. He is truly an astonishing boy. You must be so proud. Dr. Watson is a particular friend of ours of course, but as George’s colleagues, both he and Sherlock are priceless.”

George stared fascinated at Ben. Not only had he not reacted to Eugenia obviously knowing all about him, he had easily refused to let Mycroft’s name be mentioned, had actually interrupted her twice and was now off at a tangent about John and Sherlock. Also, he and John had only met a handful of times and held each other in respect, and that was the extent of their so called “particular friendship”.

“What is it that you specialised in at Girton, Mrs. Holmes?” George knew she had never ever mentioned where Eugenia had studied and could only stare dumbly as Ben carried out what seemed to be an ‘extraordinary-intervention-to-stump-a-Holmes’.

Eugenia raised an eyebrow and smiled, which would have reminded George horribly of _him_ had she not been busy being flummoxed by her step-father right then. “Dr. Undershaw, please, I understand that you have a celebration planned this evening so if you could let me speak to Georgiana for a few minutes I will be on my way.”

Ok that was it; Eugenia was indeed being a Holmes 100%. George was about to speak up for Ben when the good man continued unperturbed, “Not at all, Mrs. Holmes. Please go ahead. Don’t mind me. I’ll be too engrossed in my _chai_.”

Eugenia looked ready to protest and George wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset. Eugenia looked to George in a sort of a mute appeal that George decided to ignore and said, “Would you like some biscuits, Mrs. Holmes? They are store bought but…”

There, the lines were drawn now and Eugenia Philomena Holmes _nee_ Beauchamp was too shrewd not to have understood.

“I don’t know what my son has done, Georgiana,” George lifted an eyebrow in response since she is sure her guest knew exactly what her son had done and why Anthea had taken the _jewellery_ back to the Holmes’ pile, “But believe me he isn’t happy either. You both belong together. Please, do not give up on him, on your relationship. He can be a complete fool,” George stoically refused to add – and a complete arsehole, “but he loves you. Surely, love as strong as yours can forgive a few mistakes.”

Ben growled and it startled both of them.

“I believe you should leave please, Mrs. Holmes.”

“And I believe it is not your place ask, Dr. Undershaw,” she was pure Sherlock now. The diplomacy of the older son had disappeared. She looked at George and opened her mouth but Ben cut her off. Again.

“Mrs. Holmes, you arrived un-invited. I thought it was a courtesy call to your friend who has recovered from a grave injury and to assure yourself of her physical and emotional well-being. Instead, you seem bent on _emotionally blackmailing_ her into going back into an unhappy situation. So, kindly leave. You are no longer welcome.”

It would have been hard to say which of them was more surprised. George was by now utterly flabbergasted. As if a cute teddy bear had suddenly grown fangs. She had never even heard Ben swear, never seen him irritated leave alone angry, and he had never been anything but a true gentleman with the quietest, mildest most pleasing manners. Eugenia possibly knew the same of him and also was definitely used to running rough shod over others just as her sons and hence was equally if not more stumped.

Ben rose from his chair, placing his mug on the table in front and then lifted George from her seat as well, which she did almost mechanically, never looking away from him. Her expression was almost unreadable to Ben who smiled and walked her around the table, towards the entrance.

Eugenia rose with her usual dignity and grace but no one was even looking at her. She picked her handbag and shrug, and walked towards the door. Ben simply kept that smile on his face and refused to let go of George’s arm. George realised that he was giving her a choice, open the door and make her visitor leave or choose to listen further. It was another revelation of his character.

“I am thinking of your happiness, Georgiana. Yours and Mycroft’s. You are unhappy and so is he. Does that not count? Can a mother not …?”

Ben whipped his head towards their guest and said quietly, “Well then, good, Mrs Holmes, you fight for _your_ child while I fight for _mine_. ” George beamed at Ben. She finally blinked and then looked at Eugenia, opened the door, continued smiling and stood back.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Holmes. Thanks for coming.”

George closed the door behind Mrs. Holmes’ stiff back and turned around to see Ben’s face crumple into an apology, just about to say something. But she refused to let him and lunged to hug him.

Ben gave a soft huff of surprise but quickly hugged her back. “There now, George. You’ve slayed another dragon.” He said with a smile in his voice.

She laughed then. A high-pitched giggle that quickly turned into a full bellied laughter. They held each other laughing with grief and relief. She hadn’t cried for _him_ in weeks and now she knew she wouldn’t. She quietened in a while and it was then that Dr. Ben Undershaw finally became overwhelmed and looked to his wife for help.

*****

The following week she went on a date with a lawyer she had met at one of the family courts. Just dinner. The conversation had been good; they had argued vehemently about how the law was interpreted by the police vs. lawyers during most of it, dessert had been accompanied by joint commiseration about dealing with a hard-nosed social worker who in fact they both admired – tales of her dedication to the welfare of her charges were exchanged and smiled upon. The goodbyes were outside the restaurant itself and no kisses were exchanged since it was clear to both that they had mutual respect and an appreciation of the other’s looks but no more.

She was half asleep when Anthea came in and crawled into her bed. George moved to make some space for her. “Her name is Billie,” she whispered and George hummed sleepily in response. “And I’m afraid… I… I _know_ I’ll fuck up.”

That woke George fully, “Wh…How? Why?”

“Because that’s what _we_ do,” came the fierce whisper.

George refused to react to the ‘we’ and got to the point, “What do you want to know?” The unasked questions were always the ones that needed answering with the ‘we’ after all.

“I know that eventually if I don’t drive her away then I will at least send her away...”

“Then don’t.”

“…Once I send her away, I’ll obsess about her and then want to kill whoever she finds next.”

George suspected for half a moment that this wasn’t about Anthea and a possibly hypothetical Billie but then dismissed the thought since she did trust Anthea better now than even before. So she said again, “Then don’t. Don’t send her away.”

Anthea seemed to stop breathing before she let out a soft sound, “How?”

“You choose to,” George replied.

*****

"Should I forgive him?" George asked, without the question passing through any of her mental or verbal filters. It exploded out of her. Sherlock's eyes, when he looked up, were sharp. Only George didn’t care anymore. She just wanted to know. "Should I?" she asked again.

"I would say 'no,'" Sherlock started, "because he's a helplessly interfering fascist, and his association with you genuinely upsets me."

"You would say no?"

" _But_ ," he continued, looking sick with himself, "I suppose I _hope_ you do."

"Why?" George asked, because Sherlock's explanations had framed the mysteries of her life for more than half a decade now — Why not this one too?

His smile, this time, was self-deprecating and pathetically sad. "Let's say I view it as an indicator of whether or not John will be equally understanding."

“John still not talking to you then?”

“He is. Just that he is… he speaks…we speak, but not about… he is holding himself back. He…”

“He is stopping himself from hurting again.”

Sherlock let out a growl and slammed her countertop. Then he took a breath and slumped visibly. “He... he is sorry you know,” he said in a small voice and George knew instantly that this was about both Mycroft and him. Gosh what a mess.

“He may not know _basic human interactions_ but he… he... He does care. And he does hurt. And he can’t stay without you. It’s killing him to stay apart. Each time he tries and you rebuff him he wishes himself back in a torture chamber instead.” Torture! What? Damn Sherlock.

“He knows he screwed up badly. He knows he can never make it up to you. He knows you deserve better. He knows he will never be good enough or even enough. But he still wants you and hurts. He may not have a heart but it still hurts.” Sherlock stopped suddenly as if unable to breathe. And George realised a bit more of what had happened and what was now unfolding.

She made them instant noodles and they had it with those flimsy plastic forks instead of rooting through her cutlery drawer.

That night as she lay down on her bed, George recalled Sherlock’s words in her hospital room— "You were alive to do it," he had said, "You, John, Mrs. Hudson, you're all furious, but you're all alive to do it — that's all that mattered to me."

She called John. It was late but she had realised a bit of what had happened to Sherlock and also realised that John was more than angry. He was possibly afraid. How she wished Sherlock had told John all of that instead. It wasn't her place to pour his heart out for anyone, though, even John. So she told him just this, “He is trying, just give yourselves a chance. Please.”

*****

Eventually she forgave Sherlock. He has been cleared but while it was one thing to let him into her flat, it was quite another to do so on the crime scenes. The conversation had been hilarious and it was the closest she had heard a Holmes beg.

_"It has been fourteen months! If one more useless heiress comes to me with one more ridiculous missing brooch or vanished show pony my brain is going to liquefy in my skull — give me murders, Lestrade, give me work!"_

She knew that she let him in as much for himself as for John and herself too. John deserved a break from his babysitting duties while she… She had missed him. She missed him.

*****

The next couple of months were quite normal. Or as normal as it got for a DI in a major metropolis. Sherlock was back and mostly himself, except every now and then he hesitated. He seemed to have lost some of the reckless sense of immortality he'd always worn like a mantle.

She hadn’t tried to date again but she had John over regularly and John never failed to ensure some elaborate PDA on her doorstep. He once spent a whole five minutes caging her playfully outside her door, the most romantic expression on his face, while he explained to her how the cocktail of toxins in her latest case possibly acted and hence could be self administered. The CCTV on both ends of the street had seemed to glare at them and he only left when she laughingly kissed him calling him a lunatic.

Of course things couldn’t keep being normal and so she was actually somewhat relieved when what broke the run was a call informing her that there had been an attempted break-in at her house. She knew instantly that it was “that house” and not her rented flat. She wanted to tell them to go ahead and finish up the paper work and leave her be and that the case would anyways be taken over by the MI5 but she didn’t want to do unto her fellow officers what she has faced so many times herself and so headed there as soon as she could. She was surprised Anthea hasn’t texted or called her yet.

There is a black car on the kerb when she reached and she smiled to herself anticipating Anthea and her righteous anger. The house wasn’t actually broken in. The culprit had vanished since the alarm had sounded. Only an amateur would try to burgle in that area and not expect an alarm. Or a thorough professional who wanted her there. A shiver ran through her at that thought but there was a black car at the kerb and Mark was waving at her through the driver’s window.

She walked in to find Mycroft Holmes signing a paper with a couple of met officers watching. Anthea wasn’t around. She refused to look at him, concentrating on the officers. The officers seemed to know her and addressed her by her designation the entire time. Yes DI Lestrade there was an attempt, no ma’am not even the lock was truly broken, yes DI they had checked all the other possible points of entrance, yes DI the alarm, yes ma’am the CCTV reports were just arriving, yes Mr. Holmes had made it clear that the house had been unoccupied for some time, of course they would keep her informed, thank you DI and yes ma’am and no ma’am. Until she was sure it was the man next to her that was making them so deferential and not her own reputation and frankly it was giving her a headache.

When they finally left she too turned to go, but Mycroft’s words halted her.

“Perhaps we should sell the house.”

She merely nodded and started walking again.

“You are a co-owner and so the decision to do so should be yours too.” Was it her imagination or did he sound desperate?

“I will sign the sale deed whenever Ms. Anthea brings it to me.” She did not turn.

“Georgiana…”

She shouldn’t have turned. He looked pale, and she knew that his under eye had carefully applied makeup to disguise the dark patches. His chin seemed to have loose folds, his shoulders looked shrunk even as his waist had definitely gained a few inches.

“I… I did it…”

She shrugged “Yes yes. For my own good. To protect me. Thank you.” She turned to go.

“I refuse to apologise for keeping you safe.” He was quietly vehement and that finally drew her ire.

Her voice was calm and cold, “No, you won’t apologise. But congratulations. You did what the entire police force, my mother, the criminals in London and my ex-husband could not. Congratulations. You kept me safe. You kept me alive. And you made me feel like dirt. A worthless female whose only role should be to give you a body to fuck, house it and protect it. Wow. Get a medal or a knighthood and get out of my life. And please stay there. Sherlock is safe, there’s nothing to report. Good bye Mr Holmes.”

She walked out calmly, smiled and waved to Mark, and started the car. Only after reaching her flat did she break down. She shut the door as softly as she could (knowing that the CCTV would detect her slamming and the minion would report it to _him_ ) and resisted the urge to slump against it and listen hopefully for foot-steps. She wouldn’t reduce herself to a female in a shitty rom-com. She made her way to her bedroom and slumped down on her bed, fully dressed, kicking off her shoes and pulling the covers over herself.

The tears wouldn’t come today and she was too tired, of everything, to do anything else. Morning and work couldn’t come soon enough.

*****

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. Please do drop a note to say what you liked or hated. Does your head canon differ? Or did it align with mine?  
> Or just say hello and let me know how you have been.
> 
> Its nearly the end of the year and I hope it has been wonderful for all of you.
> 
> In case I don't post anything else this year I wish you all a Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas and a wonderful new year 2019. Stay safe, healthy and happy.


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